


Lavender Butterflies

by runboyrun



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: First Day of School, First Meetings, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 09:38:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13187370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runboyrun/pseuds/runboyrun
Summary: Stanley Uris walked into Growing Tree Preschool with his shirt pressed and lunchbox in hand. His yarmulke had an abundance of pins in it to keep it settled atop the curls that seemed more out of control each day.His momma had squeezed his hand, kissed his forehead, and set him off with a pat to his back. He’d wanted to bring a backpack but momma said that he didn’t need one yet.He wanted one though, wanted something to shrink into like he could in the blankets on his couch when kids pointed at his headgear and Star Wars lunchbox. Momma said they didn’t have food for him here, which he thought was weird - and a little scary. They wouldn’tfeedhim?“They can’t feed you,” Momma corrected, “It’s not kosher there.”





	Lavender Butterflies

Stanley Uris walked into Growing Tree Preschool with his shirt pressed and lunchbox in hand. His yarmulke had an abundance of pins in it to keep it settled atop the curls that seemed more out of control each day.

His momma had squeezed his hand, kissed his forehead, and set him off with a pat to his back. He’d wanted to bring a backpack but momma said that he didn’t need one yet.

He wanted one though, wanted something to shrink into like he could in the blankets on his couch when kids pointed at his headgear and Star Wars lunchbox. Momma said they didn’t have food for him here, which he thought was weird - and a little scary. They wouldn’t _feed_ him?

“They can’t feed you,” Momma corrected, “It’s not kosher there.”

Stanley still didn’t know what exactly kosher _was_ , but he didn’t like that it made him stick out.

When all the kids pulled off their coats and put them in cubbies Stanley couldn’t ignore how the clang of the metal tin just sounded like

_I’m weird! Stay away!_

Stan tried to keep his head down for the morning circle, sitting criss-cross-applesauce with his hands jammed into his lap to avoid touching anyone.

They had to say their names, favorite color, and favorite animal. Was Uris a weird name? Would they know that’s why he had to have a lunchbox? No boys had said they liked purple, that was a girl color, and not one kid had said anything about birds. Were birds weird? Was _Stanley_ weird?

Stanley blinked, everyone was looking at him - it was his turn. It was his turn and he was stuck like a dummy in momma’s sewing room and -

The door crashed open, for a second Stanley thought it was the other teachers, taking away the little weird kosher boy. He didn’t belong here with normal kids.

But a teacher wasn’t there, or even a grown up, instead a small boy who couldn’t be older than Stan clung to the doorknob he must’ve slammed into to make it swing like that.

He had on glasses that looked too big for a grownup, with a bright yarn band around the back to keep them on his head. His momma would call the boy’s hair a bird’s nest and his face was splattered with freckles. His clothes didn’t match at all, plaid red shorts and a shirt with a truck on it and dirty shoes and

A purple button up. Soft purple like the lavender that momma kept in the kitchen. Stanley’s favorite purple.

Stanley knew he should close his mouth, daddy said he’d catch flies like that and Stanley didn’t want bugs in his mouth. But this boy,

“Richard!”

Richard, _Richard_ , Stanley didn’t know what to do - how are you supposed to act when someone this _bright_ bursts in a room? How are you supposed to stay calm when there was a fluttering in your tummy that you can’t even pretend to control?

Richard plopped down next to Stanley, knee landing on his thigh as he squeezed into the space the other children had made around the weird kid. Richard didn’t seem to mind, he smiled, bright and toothy, at Stanley and stuck his hand out for a shake.

“You’re new! I’m Richie!”

Stan stared at the hand, everyone was watching him, Richard - Richie was so loud,

“We’re… we’re supposed to keep our hands in our lap.”

Richie blinked, “Wazzat?”

Stan’s eyes fluttered around the room, all these kids were watching them, but Richie didn’t seem to notice or care.

He looked back to Richie, mumbling out the tune of the rhyme he’d been taught minutes ago, “Criss-cross-applesauce, hands in your lap.”

Richie, instead of scoffing or looking away - or putting his hands in his lap, let out a high laugh. It boomed across the room, making Stanley jump, and the teacher turn to them again to scold them.

Scold them both, Stanley didn’t want to be scolded he -

Richie’s arm came around his shoulders after Stanley had looked away from the offered shake again, he was practically in Stanley’s lap now.

He and the teacher were arguing, Stanley had never argued with a grownup before, something about being nice to the new kid and making friends but Stanley couldn’t pick out anything for sure.

He was too distracted staring at Richie. The class started up again after this bolt of energy settled into a tremor against his side.

Not once, for the entire morning, did Richie’s arm leave Stanley’s shoulder. His fingers fiddled with the stitches of the material or would grip and hang on or tap out an off tempo rhythm.

The wrinkles in his shirt _did_ bother him, and the song he couldn’t place was frustrating, but the itch was barely in his mind and he wouldn’t dream of asking him to move. This warmth against his side was the only thing keeping him together.

Not once did Richie question a thing about him, sure he asked about his yarmulke but simply grinned with a, “Cool” When Stanley stumbled over the pronunciation.

It was like everything about Stanley amazed this boy, which was ridiculous, Stanley was the most plain person he knew. He wasn’t brave like all the heroes or smart like the princesses in Star Wars. He was… Stanley, that wasn’t anything special.

He finally said as much once lunch came. Richie had heard the isolating clang and twisted his neck to look over Stan’s shoulder to see the box. The box with Luke and Leia and Han, Richie reminded Stanley of Han a lot, holding individually wrapped slices of turkey and cheese - he couldn’t stand the thought of them together - with a bag of baby carrots and a small carton of orange juice. It was a clean healthy meal, and it made him stand out like a sore thumb among the sea of messily made ham and cheese sandwiches.

Richie, without prompt, reached for a carrot with the arm still around Stanley’s neck. He paused though, right before he reached them when he felt Stanley stiffen underneath him.

He instead poked Stanley’s cheek, “Could I️ please have a carrot, Stanley?”

Stanley reached into the small bag, pulled one out, and handed it delicately to Richie. Richie snagged it and munched happily, chin balanced on his shoulder.

“What’s up with the lunch?” He asked, and there was no mockery in his tone, no menace in his eyes, but Stanley _cracked_.

“Why are you talking to me?” He wanted to swallow the words back up when he saw the curious smile crumble into a wobbling lip.

The arm left Stanley and he felt a cold line where it’d been. Richie shoved himself off of the bench and ran down the hall, out of sight.

Stanley wanted to cry too, he’d scared off the nicest boy he’d ever met and now everyone would _hate him_ -

Stanley heard a giggle.

It had started as just a titter, but quickly grew as he turned to look. A blonde girl with a pretty ponytail chewed on gum she wasn’t supposed to have, Stanley was too scared to tell her that.

“What’s funny?” He asked instead, cringing as her head whipped to him. She didn’t laugh at him though, she looked pleased.

“I️ was wondering why you kept talking to Trashmouth,” she said, “It was funny, you made the baby bawl.”

Stan felt what must have been his heart breaking at the fresh peel of laughter from the group.

“He’s so annoying and a total crybaby, it’s the best game!”

Stanley was out of his seat before he could think about it, shoving his lunch in disarray into the tin as he ran after where Richie had retreated.

_Bawl, bawl, look at the baby bawl!_ echoed behind him.

He found Richie tucked underneath the water fountain, rubbing furiously at his nose and eyes, only smearing the tears across his face.

Stanley sat, criss-cross-applesauce, across from Richie, allowing his knees to brush Richie’s dirty sneakers as he quietly unpacked his lunch in the gap between their legs.

Richie tensed, scrambling his glasses back into place, but relaxed a bit when he recognized Stanley.

His lip was still wobbling and the tears didn’t abate as he hiccuped, “W-wh-what are you doing?” The tone was defensive, waiting for a jab or taunt.

Stanley just smiled, trying to look happy despite the tears building in his own eyes at the fear behind Richie’s glasses.

“I’m sorry,” he started, plowing through at Richie’s opening mouth, “I️ didn’t mean to be mean. I just… you’re _really_ cool and I’m not and you talked to me and I️ thought it was a joke.”

Richie stared for so long Stanley wasn’t sure if he’d heard him, finally he whispered, “Did Greta tell you to do this?”

Stanley didn’t know who Greta was but he figured he had a good idea.

“No,” He murmured, trying to make sure to keep eye contact like momma taught him, “She’s mean, I️ would never talk to her. I️ like you.”

Richie looked like he’d been slapped, “… You _like_ me?”

“I mean,” Stanley rolled his eyes with a wobbly smile, “You’re really loud, but I️ guess I’m okay with that.”

Richie laughed, it was a wet but sweet sound. Stanley wanted to hear it all the time.

“I’m sorry I’m a crybaby,” Richie chuckled, “I️ know I’m annoying.”

Stan reached for Richie’s hands, letting them hover before Richie grasped them on his own. His momma always said to let them meet you halfway, since sometimes people like Stanley didn’t want to be touched.

When Richie took his hands Stanley leaned up, bringing their faces closer, “You’re not annoying,” he said, and leaned up to kiss his forehead, “Just a stuck up, half-witted, scruffy looking Nerfherder.”

Richie’s eyes were like saucers, the tears finally stopping as he smiled. He gripped Stanley’s hands tighter for a moment, then twisted so he sat mirroring Stanley - knees resting atop Stanley’s own.

They ate slowly, Richie patiently waiting for each carrot or turkey or cheese slice to keep from touching Stanley’s own. Carton of orange juice opened on both sides to keep from their mouths touching - Richie had thought of that one all on his own, Stanley almost kissed his forehead all over again.

They packed the trash away and made their way back to the classroom as the teacher called for nap time. They both froze at the sound of Greta laughing as she passed them.

“Hey,” Richie started as they hesitated outside the door, “If I’m Han Solo,” a blinding grin split across his face, “Does that make you my Leia?”

Stanley took his hand, “Of course,” he smiled back, “She’s the _best_.”

The teacher didn’t move them apart when Richie fell asleep on top of Stanley, hands still grasped between them.

**Author's Note:**

> this was a secret santa present, so if it sucks don't tell them yikes


End file.
